


Sailing

by faithlessone



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: F/M, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-06 21:58:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13420473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithlessone/pseuds/faithlessone
Summary: The journey across the ocean seems longer on the return than it did on the departure.She can’t bear to conceal herself in her cabin with Lettie this time, terrified and hiding from the rest of the passengers. Hiding from their stares and whispers and jokes. Instead, she searches out a quiet part of the deck...





	Sailing

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this is an extension of one of the scenes in "Trouble". It just wouldn't leave me alone. ♥

Going all the way to England means sailing across the ocean, there and back again, and somehow, P.T. knows a man with a ship.

A man with a  _whole line_  of ships, criss-crossing the Atlantic every day. The biggest, most beautiful ships she’s ever seen. There were posters at the docks. It seems incredible that their ringmaster should know such a man.

But then again, she wonders if P.T. will ever stop surprising her.

She had stayed below-decks the entire way there, rarely venturing far from the cabin she shared with Lettie and a couple of the other girls. Hidden away and quiet, even though she longed to see the wide expanse of empty ocean she’d only seen in pictures. Never in her whole life had she dreamt that she’d ever leave America, let alone sail all the way to England. Not like that at any rate; an honoured guest, in a semi-private cabin.

Even so, she had no doubt what would await her above; the looks and whispers and laughs of the other passengers. The comments about standards. About her people knowing their place. It was bad enough at dinner, the watching, the pointing, the purposefully-just-loud-enough-to-overhear remarks.

But now, she’s met a _queen_. She’s met princes and princesses. Lords and ladies and fine people of all kinds have watched her perform, have applauded and cheered for her. No matter how out of place she felt in a costume more skin and net than fabric in a room of finely, fully dressed people, no one can take that away from her.

So, after two days spent hiding away again on the way back to New York, she decides that enough is enough. No more.

She might never get this chance again.

“I’m going to get some air,” she tells her cabin-mates, sat happily playing cards around a small trunk.

No one says a word.

Every step she takes between their cabin door and the stairs to the main deck, she expects someone to stop her. One of the less objectionable Oddities to return from a testing trip and tell her it’s just not worth it. Another passenger to appear and make a comment about the freaks being out of their cages and block her path. Some member of the crew to say that the top deck is off limits for… _her_ kind, in that very particular supercilious way people do when they think they’re being tactful.

But no one appears.

She gets all the way to the top.

The deck is wide and smooth, surrounded by more water than she ever could have dreamed of, the noise from the great wheels not as bad as she had guessed. Above her, wind buffets the sails, flags flutter in the breeze, clouds skitter across an endless sky. It’s just as huge and open and magnificent as she’d imagined, trapped below.

She gives the rigging a brief and wistful look. The way the ropes weave above her makes her heart race in the most familiar and welcome way. Rehearsing and then performing for the queen and the court hadn’t been nearly enough time in the air for how long she had spent confined on the journey over. They wouldn’t make for the best trapeze, but she’s played in far worst theatres.

Then she imagines the look on P.T.’s face if he caught her up there, if Mr Carlyle caught her, if the  _captain_  caught her. She’d probably have to spend the rest of the journey below-decks again; in her cabin if she was lucky, with the cargo if she wasn’t. If P.T. stopped them from throwing her overboard, that is.

Not worth it.

The front of the deck is all but empty. Most of the passengers are below taking tea or congregated in the middle and rear of the deck. None of them pay her any special attention as she passes them. She walks slowly, carefully, all the way to the prow, where the sound of the waves is loudest, drowning out the ambient noise. There’s a coil of rope wrapped around the railing, another temptation, but she doesn’t dare touch it.

Instead, she turns her attention to things she can do on the floor. Never her first choice in long practice sessions with W.D. but needs must.

Stretching out her muscles feels incredible. She hadn’t realised how tense she had been, how long it had been since she let herself relax. Even the performances in London had been more stressful than usual, terrified of disappointing P.T. on such a public stage, or making a fool of herself in front of such highborn people.

Then she moves right to the edge. The movement of the ship beneath her feet mixed with the gentle wind, the spray of the sea as the waves crash, makes her miss flying even more.

For all she loves this new experience of seeing the ocean, she can’t wait to be home.

She runs her hand along the railing marking the edge of the deck, wondering if she dared to jump up and walk along it. No. The act would likely draw too much attention. Instead, she steps onto the very lowest rung of the rails, leaning up and over the top, careful to keep a tight grip on the smooth metal. If she tipped overboard, no one would notice. She’d just disappear.

“Please don’t jump.”

For a moment, she thinks she’s imagined the words. Then she turns to see Mr Carlyle there, leaning against the rail nearby. There’s a sparkle in his eye and a grin on his lips that she can’t help but echo, no matter how much she knows she shouldn’t.

“Please,” he repeats. “I don’t think I’d be able to catch you.”

“I won’t jump,” she promises.

“Finally got your sea-legs?”

She frowns a little, the grin fading from her face. “What do you mean?”

“Sea-legs. It’s what you call it when you’re comfortable on a boat. Not feeling ill, I mean. W.D. said that was why we barely saw you on the journey over, why you were… reserved in London. You were seasick.”

Bless her brother’s heart.

“I wasn’t seasick.” She turns back to the ocean, the wide expanse of water spreading as far as the eye can see in all directions.

A soft chuckle comes from his direction, but she doesn’t rise to it.

“I thought as much. I said, what’s so different about the pitch and roll of the ocean to swinging and throwing yourself about on a rope or trapeze? So what was it? A really good book? Nerves about meeting her majesty?”

The constant questions aren’t going to stop until she answers him, she knows. It’s a pattern. He does it to all of them and none of them are really self-assured enough to call him out on it. The only recourse is to distract him and hope his attention can be diverted to more comfortable ground.

“Throwing myself about?” she asks, tilting her head towards him and raising her eyebrow.

He’s grinning again. “Why, what else do you call it?”

“I believe one of the princesses called me a butterfly.”

“And quite rightly too.”

His smile has softened to that very particular expression she sees right after performances and has to use all her willpower to ignore. It’s a dangerous expression. One that leads her to thoughts she absolutely cannot have; of soft cushions in front of a fireplace and softer music playing in the background. W.D. would kill her himself if he saw the images that smile produced.

Yet, she finds she can’t tear her eyes away.

There’s no dressing room to run to out here, no other performers to distract her, no big brother with a watchful eye and warning glance.

A lucky gust of wind paired with a slightly rougher pitch of the ship almost tips her over the railing, and his hand is suddenly closing around hers.

She hadn’t even noticed him move.

Her heart is beating harder than she can sensibly attribute to the shock of almost falling. Harder than she can ascribe to the excitement of being on the upper deck. Harder than she can excuse to the complete peculiarity of this whole situation.

She glances over her shoulder first. The foredeck is empty, and none of the people in the mid-section are looking in their direction. It pains her deeply that she’s more concerned that someone might see them than she is happy that he tried to save her.

A princess called her a butterfly. She can be brave.

“I thought you said you couldn’t catch me,” she says, forcing herself to look at his face and not at his fingers still curled around hers.

Looking at his face turns out to be the wrong idea as she tracks the path of his gaze, moving from their linked hands along her arm and finally reaching her face, the slightest colour in his cheeks that she can’t entirely explain away by the wind.

“Falling isn’t jumping,” he says, and if there’s the slightest tremble in his voice, she refuses to acknowledge it.

Then he takes a half-step closer. Slowly. She’s not sure whether it’s hesitation or fear, because he thinks he shouldn’t or because he thinks she’ll flee. Either explanation is correct, but she remains still on the lowest rung of the barrier, one hand in his, the other white-knuckled on the railing.

Another half-step.

The ship pitches again, and his hand tightens around hers.

“I’m trying not to panic, and I know you’re good with heights and controlled falling, but please, for the sake of my blood pressure, can you come down from there?”

If it weren’t for the touch of genuine fear in his voice, she’d be a little tempted to laugh at just how courteously he asked her. But for all her faults, she’s not cruel, so she lets him help her down to the relative safety of the deck.

Once she’s on the floor, though, there’s no real reason to keep holding his hand. The danger has passed. But he doesn’t let go of her, so she doesn’t let go of him.

He turns slightly away from her, hand still clasped in hers, looking out over the ocean. Now that she’s off the barrier, he seems a little more relaxed, and it makes her feel strangely guilty for reasons she can’t quite explain and doesn’t want to think about.

“I always loved the sea. When I was younger, I was in a rowing society. Some of the other boys were talking about rowing across the whole ocean. They never tried, of course. Idiots.”

It takes her a few moments to process what he’s saying. That he’s talking to her at all, not just filling the silence with strangely fond words.

“Rowing society?”

He gives her that self-effacing, apologetic grin he’s perfected around the Oddities, that very particular one he uses when he’s temporarily forgotten that they didn’t grow up in money and society and privilege like him. They tend to forgive him for it. It’s probably not his fault that he’s never really mixed with anyone who didn’t have the same childhood of summer houses and tutors and fancy dinner parties.

Then, as usual, he changes the subject.

“Reckon there are any mermaids out there?”

She can’t help but laugh. It’s a running joke at the circus. P.T. had rented a monstrous little thing from one of his less reputable associates as a special exhibition for the museum. The top of a monkey stitched to the back of a fish. It was only on display for a few days, but there are pictures of it all over the museum. She tries to avoid them.

“If they’re all like ours, I hope not.”

“Ah, but you see that was a Fiji mermaid. Atlantic mermaids are very different.”

He sounds so serious. She loves his imagination.

Wait… no. Not loves. The proximity, the unfamiliar surroundings, the fact he is _still_ holding her hand, they’re all going to her head. She respects him as a fellow artist. An artist in a different way, perhaps, but everyone has an act. She _doesn’t_ love him.

(Maybe if she tells herself that enough times, it’ll become true.)

“How different?” she asks, and tries to convince herself that it’s not so she can continue to listen to his voice.

“For a start, there are no monkeys up here. So, perhaps they have the heads and bodies of seals? Or no, seals already have tails and flippers, that wouldn’t work.” He pauses, looking out at the ocean, towards the northern horizon. “Bears. That must be it. The head and neck of a polar bear and the tail of a fish. Something similar to a large salmon, I believe.”

She laughs. “A polar bear and a large salmon?”

“A polar bear and a large salmon.”

“And do they have fur or scales, Mr Carlyle?”

He grins. “Why, Miss Wheeler, can’t they have both? Fur on top, of course, and scales below. It does get terribly cold in the ocean. Particularly towards the north, which is of course where they spend most of their time.”

“Of course. Do they hibernate for the winter?”

“I don’t believe so. Polar bears don’t, you see. Perhaps they swim south, like birds would fly south.”

“How far south?”

“A holiday to the coast of Florida. Any further and they would be too warm.”

She can’t help laughing again. “You should remember this story and tell it to the girls. They’d enjoy it very much.”

His smile softens. Caroline and Helen Barnum adore him, and he adores them back, like the little sisters he never had.

“I will. I may have to add a lion somehow. Did you know? Helen adores lions above all else.”

“How peculiar.”

The unexpected comment from behind startles them both. Their hands lose contact, but she doesn’t have time to work out who let go of who. She turns first, him half-a-second behind, to see the opera singer, the Swedish Nightingale. How long has she been there? How much has she heard?

“Miss Lind,” he says, courteously.

“Mr Carlyle,” she returns.

They’ve been introduced, at the palace and then again at the docks as they prepared to board the ship home, but the singer’s eyes glance over Anne in that very particular, nonchalant way that distinctly says that Anne is beneath her notice.

“Did you want something?” he asks, a slight note of tension in his voice.

She shrugs that beautiful careless shrug of hers. “I came up to take the air and saw the two of you. What _were_ you discussing so clandestinely? I heard talk of lions?”

“Matters of no consequence, believe me, Miss Lind,” he answers quickly. “Circus business only.”

She nods. “Of course.”

Anne feels frozen to the spot. All the bravery, the ease that had built up between them has been shattered by the arrival of the beautiful, cultured opera singer. She wants to run. This was a mistake. She never should have come up the stairs.

P.T. appears as if from nowhere.

“There you are, Miss Lind. And Phillip, and Anne!” He has a smile for each of them but she fancies that hers is the brightest. “Feeling better?”

Once again, she wonders if the ringmaster will ever stop surprising her. Whether inadvertently or otherwise, he has provided her with the perfect escape.

“I’m sorry, Mr Barnum. I thought I was, but I find myself feeling ill again. Please excuse me.”

“Oh, that’s terrible news.” He sounds genuinely disappointed, but the ever-so-slight pout that Miss Lind is pulling stops her from feeling any guilt at the deception. “Well, go and get some rest, by all means. Hopefully it will pass. We will see you at dinner?”

She nods. “I imagine so.”

Before she manages to take a step, P.T. speaks again.

“Phillip, please escort Anne down to her cabin, won’t you? Make sure she gets there safely.”

She doesn’t look back to see his reaction, but suddenly he’s at her side again, a steady hand lightly on her elbow, just as she’s seen P.T. do for Charity when they’re together. The mere notion makes her head spin a little.

“My pleasure.”

He steers her away before she’s had time to process, guiding her at a steady pace across the wide, smooth deck and back towards the stairs. Before she knows it, they’re back at the door of her cabin.

“Thank you, Mr Carlyle,” she says, a little uncertain, not sure what she’s supposed to do now.

“You’re welcome, Miss Wheeler,” he says, just as uncertainly. She can see a dozen thoughts whirling around his head.

Once, she saw him bidding goodnight to Charity and the Barnum girls. He’d taken and kissed their hands like they were real ladies. She’d been momentarily, irrationally jealous, and then felt guilty about it all evening. If he did that now, she didn’t know what she’d do.

But he doesn’t.

He just smiles softly, that wonderful, perfect smile she sees right after performances and has to use all her willpower to ignore.

“Get some rest. Like P.T. said. And hopefully I’ll see you again tomorrow? I have some more theories about Atlantic mermaids I think you’ll like to hear. I’ll even get Barnum to keep Miss Lind at tea a while longer.”

At that, he winks, and, though she knows she shouldn’t, she smiles back at him.

“I’d like that. Till tomorrow, then.”

His smile widens as he takes a step backwards. “Till tomorrow.”

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact!
> 
> This fic was minorly inspired by the fact that, while searching for the average time it would take to cross the Atlantic in 1850, I accidentally discovered that P.T. Barnum was friends with Edward Collins, the owner of the Collins Line of steamships. The article also mentioned that P.T. brought Jenny Lind to the USA on one of the early voyages of the _Atlantic_ , one of Collins' most famous ships. The fic got away from me a bit after that, but that's where it started. :D
> 
> Also the Fiji Mermaid is a real thing. And it is CREEPY. The Atlantic Mermaid is not. :P


End file.
